


art versus escape

by knaveofhearts (seatbeltdrivein)



Category: Naruto
Genre: AU, Gen, Prisoner of War, explicit violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-04
Updated: 2010-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:39:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/knaveofhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breaking the body alone is far too simple for an act of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	art versus escape

Breaking the body alone is far too simple for an act of war. Limbs taught with the agony of being stretched too tightly, wrists flexing involuntarily, possessed with the drive to _escape_.

 

This body would never be so fortunate.

 

Gaara never spoke to them; his eyes said enough, lighting up with every cringe, every shriek, and every drop of blood spilled in his name, by his hand. His art needed no words.

 

"You might as well kill me." The man had pale eyes. They were _beautiful_. Shaking his bound arms once again, long hair shifting wildly with every tense movement, he lowered his head, chin touching his chest.

 

_No_.

 

Gaara's hand shot out, grasping the man's face tightly, nails digging into the soft flesh beneath. Jade eyes observed his canvas with detached curiosity.

 

And then he spoke. "No," his mouth echoed his mind. This one he could make something with, something beautiful and perfect and _lasting_. This one would etch his name into the universe, keeping him there until nothing was left to be remembered and every last breath had fallen silent.

 

This one was something special.

 

He stepped away; there was no need to be overeager. Mistakes happened when he rushed.

 

"It was your fate," he said, and his voice carried through the small cell, the cement walls recycling the words until they stuck in the man's ears, his pretty pearl eyes clenched because he knew, just as Gaara knew, that fate was an inarguable force.

 

Everything necessary to create was at his hands, the tray littered with silver instruments, the sharp edges of his tools gleaming even in the dim fluorescent light. Grasping one in his hand, he angled it back and forth, just in his project's peripheral, noting with a strange and distinct pleasure that those pale eyes couldn't resist craning towards the dangerous glint of the metal.

 

Gaara could easily love those eyes.

 

"War is a terrible thing." A terrible, beautiful thing, just like this man sent to his studio to become something worth mentioning, an icon of a long suffering war and its long suffering people.

 

The silver glinted once more, now in the man's direct line of sight. His skin flashed sickly white as the gleam hit him, the filthy, matted dark hair pouring over his face and shoulders giving an ugly contrast. There was hate in the pearls sitting in his head.

 

It was time.

 

"You can keep your secrets so long as you can keep your chin up." If he'd been sent here, then any knowledge he had was inconsequential. All that mattered within those four cement walls was Gaara's steady hand, glinting silver, and the strength of his captive's will.

 

Pressing the sleek sliver tip just to the corner of his eye, he allowed the man's lid to flutter over the pearly pupils in mock protection for a moment before pressing harder, sliding it down and down.

 

The leather cuffs hugging tight to the slim, pale wrists groaned as the man's arms tensed, the only part of his body that reacted save for the lid of the other eye which continuously fluttered. Gaara knew the man was watching his own mutilation.

 

"Suna won't last," the man was rambling through the pain, every muscle straining not to just give in and drop limp, "Konoha will end you—"

 

"And I," Gaara slid brush deeper, sliding it in circular motions like an artists creating the foundation, lines to mark the way, "will not be there to see it."

 

"No." There was a great deal of blood now, slipping out the damaged socket and down that perfect pale face, into the curtain of hair and down the man's tense chest, ribs. "You'll be long dead."

 

Gaara hummed, sliding the sharpened tool around the outline of the socket, pushing at the bottom of the soft pearlescent oval. His hands felt tense.

 

Art took time, patience. The things that had taken him years to learn, mistake after mistake, and body after body. His art was one of trial and error, his position earned after years of the same.

 

He would take his time.

 


End file.
